


Irritated

by faketoast



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anger, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cold Weather, Crack, Cute Keith (Voltron), Embarrassed Keith (Voltron), Embarrassment, Gay Keith (Voltron), Idk what i'm doing, Keith (Voltron)-centric, Light Angst, M/M, Rainy Days, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Fluff, Unresolved Romantic Tension, don't ask why, im not sorry, im slightly sorry, keith looks cute when he's embarrassed, klance, lance is kind of a douchebag, shiro is keith's landlord in this, slight nsfw thoughts, this is my first fic, very minor though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faketoast/pseuds/faketoast
Summary: Keith is mad because his apartment's heating system broke. The fact that Lance is a gorgeous human being doesn't make it any better.
Relationships: Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 86





	Irritated

**Author's Note:**

> hey there! this is my first fic on ao3. i apologize if i'm slow updating/replying to comments/things like that, i'm still kinda learning how all this works :33 
> 
> thanks for reading!

It was a cold, cloudy day and Keith was irritated. 

Well, more irritated than usual.

He woke that miserable morning in a shiver, limbs and bedsheets tangled in a shuddering, trembling heap. Not bothering to fully unwrap himself, he stumbled out of bed–– blanket trailing behind him as he made his way to the living room thermostat. The wooden floors were frigid under his feet, the air difficult to breathe in without clenching his entire body inwards. He tapped a shaky finger against the temperature monitor and realized what the source of his unrelenting rage would be for the day.

“Oh for  _ God’s sake _ ,” Keith banged his fist against the wall. Truly, it was only a matter of time before his run-down apartment’s heating system decided to kick the bucket, but the inevitability made it no less incensing. He tipped his head backward, contemplating how many stories he’d need to fall to end his frustrations then and there. 

He closed his eyes, slowly inhaling from his nose the way Shiro did to quell his anger. Though the thought of Shiro quickly made him shriek in agony once again, as he realized his doting-brother-figure-by-day, horrifying-landlord-by-usually-later-in-the-day-if-he-fucked-up-on-his-rent-again wouldn’t be very pleased with the news of Keith destroying the apartment’s heating. 

A glance at the clock revealed it was barely 8AM, but Keith knew there was no way he’d be able to sleep in the freezing temperature. He elected to watch TV on his couch instead, the mindless drivel of some early-morning sitcom going wholly unprocessed by his brain. He leaned his head against the headrest, pulling the blanket tighter around himself and pinching the bridge of his nose. Eyes tightly screwed shut, he tried to think of a way to fix his predicament–– or at least keep Shiro from finding out. God, the idea of explaining himself to that man was aggravating. This whole day was so just very aggravating, and just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse––  _ DING-DONG! _

Keith’s eyes snapped open. He wanted to believe that no one in their right mind would bother him before noon on such a day, unless the idea of incurring his sleep-deprived wrath was somehow incredibly tempting. He didn’t move, hoping (for his sake and for whoever was on the other side of the door’s) that his lack of sleep was making him hear things. 

But a second ring of the doorbell made whatever patience Keith was harboring vanish into thin air. He hurled himself off the couch, blanket still trailing behind him as he stomped across the room. Gnashing his teeth together, he banged open the door.  _ Whoever the  _ hell _ thought it was acceptable to interrupt his morning brooding, he swore he was going to—  _

Oh.

Standing in the doorway was a very wet-looking Lance McClain, struggling (rather unsuccessfully) to close a dripping umbrella. His jacket was soaked through, water running off the hem and down onto his muddy boots. Damp, brown hair was plastered to his forehead and raindrops slid steadily down his cheeks. He turned to Keith, signature crooked grin set to his face. Keith gaped, unbelieving.

Of course.  _ Of course.  _ This was exactly what this horrendous day needed: a visit from his sickeningly cheerful, perpetually snide,  _ stupidly handsome  _ best friend. He felt his anger slipping away–– or perhaps increasing tenfold. Truthfully, it was hard to tell with the way Lance’s features had taken a glow under the dim light, raindrops glistening on his brow. Keith made a choked sort of sound in the back of his throat. 

“Keith! Buddy!” Lance gave up on the unruly umbrella, fully focusing his attention on the blanket-clad boy. “So, uh…it’s raining.”

“Clearly.” Keith spat, enraged at the perfect way Lance ran a hand sheepishly through his dripping hair. “The forecast said it’s supposed to be a downpour this whole week.”

“Oh. Um…” Lance’s face scrunched up in what Keith assumed was embarrassment. It was difficult to say; he found himself too focused on the way Lance’s clothes had started to cling to the broad expanse of his shoulders. 

“I was just… out for a morning stroll and it, uh. It came down real fast,” Lance shook his head, trying to regain his composure. “And, um, your apartment was nearby, so I just sort of…ran for cover?”

At Keith’s lack of response, Lance bit his lip, chagrined. He gave an awkward chuckle through his teeth, a low, gravelly sound. Keith willed his heart to keep beating. “Anyways I was wondering if I could hang out here for a bit until the rain dies down? You can totally say no if you’re busy or…”

Lance paused. He lowered down to Keith’s height, peering at him from under the comforter’s hood, eyes a deep,  _ deep _ blue in the dull light of the hallway. Raindrops dripped down his golden skin, adorning the apples of his cheeks. Keith met his gaze, resisting the urge to glance down at his lips, and wondered if the depth of that endless indigo was enough to make him drown. 

“What’s with the blanket?”

Keith startled, shifting his focus away from overpowering blue. “Uh, the heater,” he said, color filling his cheeks fast. He bristled, infuriated by his oncoming blush and even more by the beautiful harmony Lance’s dark locks made with his rich, brown skin. Lance himself quirked a brow, evidently still confused by the minimal explanation. Keith’s breath caught in his throat. 

“Heater broke. Cold. Can’t fix it,” he sputtered. 

Lance’s jaw fell open. His hands clutched his stomach as he tipped his head back in a deep guffaw. “You  _ broke _ it?? Oh dude, Shiro’s gonna be  _ pissed _ !”

Keith growled, actually  _ growled _ . The way his words stumbled in front of Lance was already infuriating–– the obnoxious fucker really had to bring up Shiro too? He wanted to throttle him. Or no, he wanted to throttle himself. Letting Lance reduce him to a stuttering, trembling fool yet again was eating away at Keith’s already-dwindling pride, slowly but surely decimating his waning will to live. 

See, because that was the  _ thing. _ Keith Kogane was notoriously brash, unafraid, and assertive in his actions; he was the guy that didn’t think before doing something stupidly dangerous and didn’t apologize for it after. He was fearless. 

But all it took was a certain blue-eyed glance and sparkling smile for Keith to trip, fall, and smack his chin right on his insecurities. He didn’t understand it, how one person could be so achingly beautiful. How one person’s presence could make him feel so hopeless. And pitiful. And small. 

God, he  _ hated it _ . Hated Lance’s stupid perfect face and his stark cobalt eyes, those muscular arms that could snap him in half. He hated that sly, dazzling grin, those gentle, plush lips, and that irreverent tongue he wanted to feel with his mouth. 

Lance was gorgeous. And it pissed Keith off to the high heavens.

“So, uhhh… would it be alright if I...,” Lance shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. Keith supposed a good dousing in the rain was bound to have that effect. “...if I came in?”

Keith sighed. There was nothing he could do about this situation now, he might as well lie back and accept the tragedy of his fate. Besides, it would be rude to close the door on a friend.

_ Friend _ . He snorted. 

“Fine,” he said. “Leave your shoes outside.” He eyed the soaking monstrosity still dangling from Lance’s fingers. “And that umbrella, too.”

Lance grinned, kicking off his filthy boots as he leaned against the doorframe. “I wouldn't dare track mud into your beautiful home, Keith–– sans heating though it may be.”

He flashed Keith a smile dripping in mockery, plainly amused by how the shorter boy had tightly clenched his fists by his side. Keith stared daggers at the man now standing on his welcome mat in soggy socks. Water still dripped steadily down Lance’s hair and clothes and Keith wondered if it was too late to throw Lance out of his house.

“Take off your jacket,” he snapped. “You’re getting water on my floor.” Keith turned back towards his couch, the situation too tiresome to prompt his standing up any longer. 

Lance glanced down and smirked. “Since when do you have a welcome mat?”

Keith whirled, ready to hurl insults at that wretched, arrogant voice, but Lance was already peeling off his dripping jacket. The soaked-thin fabric of his shirt was translucent against golden-brown skin, clinging tightly to solid shoulders and the planes of his chest. Raindrops slid down his exposed neck, glistening on his collarbone and collecting in the hollow of his throat. Keith stopped dead in his tracks. Eye twitching and mouth open like a trout, a garbled sound of indignation tumbled past his lips. 

“I suppose I should toss this out next to my shoes?” Lance cracked a smile and held the drenched jacket at arm’s length, making a valiant––though fruitless––effort to avoid creating a puddle on the floor. Keith acknowledged a semblance of thankfulness for the action. He closed his eyes, sighing heavily through his nose. 

“No, it’s alright,” he said. “I’ll throw it in the wash for you.”

“Oh,” said Lance, a hint of color dusting his cheeks. “You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s fine,” Keith replied. Lance was embarrassed, he could tell. Hell, Keith would be, too. Showing up a sopping mess on Lance’s threshold and asking the gorgeous man if he could come in? He’d fucking implode. But why the hell was  _ Lance _ embarrassed? Surely the self-assured bastard was aware of how good he looked soaking wet. Or how good he looked completely dry or every damn state of wetness in between. The sadist in him felt a sick sort of satisfaction. He humphed; let Lance get a taste of the garbage Keith felt whenever he laid eyes on that stupid face. 

He held out a hand for the jacket as the taller boy gazed back at him, unsure. Reluctantly, Lance handed it over. His fingers brushed against Keith’s as he took it from his grasp and Keith tried to quell the fire that was now simmering underneath his skin. 

A beat passed, and then: “Jesus, it’s  _ freezing _ in here.”

Concern flashed on Keith’s face as Lance’s teeth began to chatter. The apartment was cold-as-balls already and he suspected the idiot’s escapade in the rain would’ve had him freezing to death by now. He scowled in annoyance once again. What kind of moron doesn’t check the weather before going on a stroll?

_ This kind of moron _ , he thought as Lance wrapped his arms around himself. He was trembling now, gripping the drenched fabric of his shirt with shaking hands. Keith rolled his eyes, frankly unsure if the dramatic jackass was faking it. At the rate he was shivering, Keith worried he’d get sick. 

“Seriously, it’s c- _ cold _ ” Lance got the words out through chattering teeth.

“That’s what I meant by ‘the heater broke,’ moron,” Keith deadpanned, thankful for the heavy duvet still wrapped around his body. He deliberated, uncertain if he should go grab one for Lance–– the boy really was in danger of catching something. Maybe he should make him some tea? They could sit on the couch together, perhaps, to conserve each other’s warmth… 

Keith flushed, the idea of Lance cuddled up next to him entirely too intimate. Still, he observed Lance wearily, considering his trembling shoulders, how his lips seemed to have taken on a bluish hue. He had to do  _ something _ ; what sort of person would willingly let a friend fall sick? He clutched the sopping jacket tighter in his fists and grumbled, knowing Lance’s dripping clothes weren’t doing him any good.  _ He should take those off _ , he thought, realizing it may be best if Lance––

“SHOWER!”

“Huh?” Lance’s mouth quivered mid-shiver. He tilted his head to the side, bemused. 

Fuck. 

Keith slapped a hand over his face, mortified beyond belief. How the hell had his thoughts raced so far ahead of him? His eyes bugged out of his head, color rapidly filling his cheeks. It was over. He was done for. He might as well pack his bags and clear out the godforsaken apartment right now.  _ What the actual fuck was wrong with him? _ He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t  _ begin _ to imagine how deeply uncomfortable Lance was. He could kiss his friendship with the brainless, beautiful bastard goodbye. 

“Keith?” Lance prodded, brow furrowed in concern. “You okay there?”

Keith took a shaky breath, fixing his eyes directly on Lance’s stupid wet socks because meeting his gaze right now would probably give him an aneurysm. He inhaled again, trying to regain some semblance of sanity. 

“Sh-shower,” he stammered, still staring pointedly at the floor. “Take a hot shower. So you d-don’t catch a cold. I’ll–– I’ll toss your other clothes in the wash, too.” His words muddled and cracked but he couldn’t find any embarrassment left to spare for it. Forget dwindling, his pride was presently annihilated. 

“Oh,” said Lance. He hesitated, but Keith didn’t look up. He didn’t need to see Lance’s expression, wasn’t interested in acknowledging the weird, grossed-out emotions his outburst had likely made him feel.  _ Of course Lance doesn’t want to fucking shower at your house, idiot! You-you’re bros! That isn’t something bros do!  _ He cursed his wretched tongue, cursed the place his mind was now wandering. If only a gigantic manhole would open beneath him immediately, swallowing him up in all his misery. 

But just as he was about to apologize, Lance giggled through his chattering teeth. Keith ripped his gaze from the floor. 

The motherfucker was laughing at him. 

Arms still locked tightly around his waist, Lance cackled like a wild animal. He heaved gasping breaths, bracing himself against the wall and bending over with glee. Face split in a wide grin, he looked up at Keith, before slapping a hand over his mouth and dissolving into giggles once again. Keith’s cheeks flamed, with anger now rather than embarrassment. He clutched his hands into fists, staring murderously as the asshole shook with delight. 

“What the hell’s so funny?!” he barked. 

Lance didn’t stop laughing. He spluttered and coughed, hands gripping his knees to remain upright.  _ Good _ , thought Keith, wishing the moron  _ was _ falling sick; maybe then he would stay out of Keith’s sight for a couple of weeks. Lance sucked in a breath, wiping tears from his eyes as he stood. He pressed his mouth into a firm line, the snickers finally starting to cease. 

“Shit, I’m sorry I just—” Lance bit his lip. “You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed.” 

Wait.

_ What?  _

Keith lost it. A roar of pure fury ripped from his throat as he slapped the sopping jacket on the floor and marched towards Lance. He stomped across the room, seizing the drenched collar of his shirt and pushing forwards until his back slammed against the wall. A gasp left Lance’s mouth, his breath searing hot against Keith’s skin.

Lance cocked his head downwards, locking stares with the shorter boy. Scoffing, he raised his brows in defiance, a smirk still playing on his lips. “Dude, relax,” he said, all traces of the shivering, quaking boy gone as the whispered derision of his words brought Keith’s blood to a boil. An infuriatingly familiar honey dripped into his voice. “I was joking. Don’t cream your pants.”

Keith snarled through bared teeth, Lance’s collar still clutched in his hands. Their faces were now inches apart and he found himself trembling, staring into the challenge burning in those cobalt eyes. It was maddening–– every feature, every detail of the man he adored so tangibly within his grasp. How easy it would be to reach out, to feel the softness of that golden skin beneath his fingers. To trace the dip, the slight pucker of those parted, cherry lips with his tongue. To rake his hands through damp hair and tilt that piercing gaze down, so that the embers of breathtaking blue could light him aflame.

It was enraging how simple it would be, how easily he could break right here and give in to his most dangerous desires. They were ever so close, breaths mingling and noses centimeters apart, and it was suddenly too much: how Lance was watching him with half-lidded eyes, his head inclined downwards to fully observe the expression on Keith’s face. 

Keith released the soaking collar of his shirt, backing up a step. He grabbed the jacket from the floor, willing the weight of it to calm the shaking of his hands. Squirming beneath the perceptive stare that remained trained upon him, he cursed the muddled thoughts that were likely written all over his face. He inhaled, needing air that wasn’t Lance’s breath. 

The room felt stiff. Brittle. Keith wondered if he had finally, formally, irrevocably overstepped his bounds. But then Lance spoke in that unbearably arrogant voice of his. 

“A shower actually sounds great right about now.” 

Irritation bubbled up in his throat once again as Keith  _ heard _ the insufferable smirk in those words. He glared at Lance, twitching in the effort it took to not body-slam him back into the wall. 

“Which way’s the bathroom?” Lance asked, that lilting smugness ever-present. 

With how often he overstayed his welcome in the apartment, Lance already knew where the bathroom was; Keith was sure of it. He scowled, suspecting the asshole just found a sick amusement in watching him dance, but led the way nonetheless. Lance went inside as Keith leaned against the wall, flashing him that merciless grin before closing the door. Keith resisted the urge to knock a punch right into his teeth. 

Minutes passed and Lance cracked open the door, handing Keith a sopping pile of clothes. But through the gap in the doorway, Keith could see that his smile was gone–– replaced by something softer. 

“Hey Keith,” he said. Their gazes met through the crack and Keith caught a glimpse of ruffled hair and slick, tan skin. His head spun when Lance said the word, barely a whisper. 

“Thanks.”

With that, he shut the door. Keith blinked and thumped his forehead against the wall. 

_ What the hell just happened? _

Taking a deep, deep breath, he tried to unpack the events that had transpired. First, Lance-fucking-McClain shows up at his door at eight in the morning, asking for a place to stay. Then he practically freezes to death in the middle of his living room and gets all flustered when Keith offers him–– what? A simple act of friendly hospitality? Keith growled, indignant. Where the  _ fuck _ was that embarrassment from earlier, anyway? Because the man that threw Keith’s mind so far into the gutter while  _ pushed against a goddamn wall _ hadn’t seemed embarrassed in the slightest. 

No, he’d seemed amused. Wickedly amused by the humiliated boy falling apart in front of him. He closed his eyes, picturing the way Lance had watched with morbid glee while Keith shoved himself against him. He could still taste the hot breath ghosting his face, could feel how his fingers had ached from clenching his collar with such unbridled rage. He looked down, staring at the very same shirt now mangled up in his palms, like a mocking reminder of what he’d done. 

Rising, he carried the clothes to his laundry room if only to dump them out of his sight. The familiar motions of running the washer-dryer were a welcome distraction–– though regrettably, an unsuccessful one. He couldn’t keep his thoughts from replaying those agonizing words. 

_ You’re cute when you’re embarrassed _ .

Keith slammed a hand against the machine. The metallic clang rang in his ears and he let it bombard his rotting brain. He needed something, anything to get the smugness of that voice out of his head. 

_ Why _ did those words hit such a nerve with him? It wasn’t like they meant anything. They were just Lance being the insufferable bastard he was, riling Keith up because he liked seeing him angry. There was no point in being upset, in yelling at Lance–– hell in shoving him against a wall. Because to Lance, this was just a game. A simple, meaningless game that Keith knew he’d always lose. 

He shut the lid of the washer and clicked it on. Returning to the living room, he found his duvet in a crumpled heap upon the floor; the duvet he’d thrown off his shoulders before losing his mind. 

Keith sighed, wondering if any fraction of his self-respect would remain after today. 

The apartment was still  _ frigid _ he realized, wrapping the blanket back around himself and making his way to the couch. The sitcom continued to run on faint volume as he laid his head on a cushion and draped an arm over his face. He couldn’t let himself relax–– what with that prick still bumbling about his home–– but tried to bask in the immediate absence of brown-haired, blue-eyed men. The idiot would be done soon, he thought with a groan. 

Keith didn’t deign to rise until the washer-dryer dinged, upon which he grabbed the freshly warmed clothes and unceremoniously chucked them against the bathroom door. Lance would figure it out. He heard the water stop running as he sat back on the couch. 

The door opened and Lance’s call of his name was cut short by a mumbled  _ oh _ as he looked down. Keith snorted, tipping his head back and holding on to the last bits of peace he would have for the next couple of hours. 

He wasn’t going to embarrass himself again, he swore to it. 

But a glance at Lance's lazy grin as he toweled his dripping hair made Keith’s mouth run dry. 

“Did you really have to leave them on the floor?” he asked, the words a saccharine drawl. Keith couldn’t decide if the tone made him want to kiss the boy breathless or smash his face into the ground. He should’ve used that merciful, Lance-free silence to prepare himself mentally. Because now, Lance was back and he would torment Keith until his will shattered again. 

“Oh hey, I love this show!”

Lance bounded towards him. Eyes glued to the screen, he flopped down on the couch, unabashedly grabbing Keith’s spare blanket from beside the cushions and unfurling it over himself. He hooked his feet over the armrest and glanced over his shoulder, smirking. 

He plopped his head down, square in Keith’s lap. Keith felt his soul leave his body for good. 

“Wh-what––!” he spluttered. Squirming, he tried to free his arms from underneath Lance. The fucker didn’t budge. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“Conserving warmth, what else?” Lance grinned up at him, amused as ever. Keith bit back a scream. 

He inhaled, once. Twice. A third time for good measure. But he couldn’t keep himself from gaping at the boy in his lap, head now tilted to the side, facing the running television screen. Colors flashed from a lively infomercial, casting dull patterns on his golden skin. Keith’s eyes lost focus, tracing the angle of Lance’s jaw, the tangle of damp hair splayed against his thigh, the gentle smile that still tugged at the corners of his mouth–– all with his gaze. He was trapped in that inebriating headspace once again, uncertain if he could hold back from running a feather-light touch down the column of Lance's throat. From clasping his fingers in still-drying hair and dragging the boy down, down, down into the depths of his desires.

He shut his eyes, needing to put out the flames licking at his thoughts. But when he opened them again, he met the piercing stare that never failed to make his breath catch in his throat. For what would be the third time that morning, Keith found himself adrift. Drowning beneath crashing waves of blue. 

“Hmm, we’re blanket buddies now,” Lance mused, tugging on the folds of the duvet around Keith’s shoulders. 

“God, I wanna punch you in the mouth,” Keith muttered.  _ Softly. With my lips. _

He leaned back, wondering how the hell he got into this position: Lance sprawled out in his lap, the weight of his body pressing Keith into the couch. He found himself wondering if the asshole knew what exactly it was that he was doing. What he was doing to Keith. 

He probably did, sadistic prick. 

But there was something in the way his head fell heavy against Keith’s knees, or how his laughter resounded through the room at every cheesy sitcom joke, or how he’d look up and smile at Keith every so often. Something that made Keith wish with all his might that this was more than just a game. 

He knew it was dangerous to hope like that–– and was aware of how deeply those feelings could fracture him if he ever lost control. But he also knew that, beneath his unbounded anger and frustration, every time he felt Lance’s skin against his, he was lit on a fire he didn’t know how to put out. And that every look into those depthless indigo eyes made him want to burn. 

He knew what he felt for Lance and it terrified him. But there was something, again, that made him wonder. Maybe it was because Lance would stick around through his every burst of anger and embarrassment. Or because Lance would always find it in him to laugh so freely after everything Keith did. Or because he remembered the way Lance had looked at him before closing the bathroom door.

Something told him that, even if he was playing a losing game, Lance would never let him fall.

He tipped his head back in a sigh, the exhaustion from the day finally starting to seep into his bones. His hands had gone numb under the weight of Lance’s body, but he knew it would be fruitless asking him to move.

It was a bit late, he realized, for Lance to keep him from falling. Because he’d already fallen far, far down. He didn’t know where the descent would land. He didn’t care. 

And the thought made him irritated as hell. 


End file.
